Then Morning Came
by Zagury
Summary: "A true friend is someone who walks in when the rest of the world walks out."


The weather was dreary. It always was this time of year, when nature couldn't decide if it was fall or winter yet; the rain was on and then off, the sunshine liked to tuck away behind the clouds. People even kept to themselves a bit more, showing their faces at the pubs a little less, as though making preparations for all the winter nights they would need some firewhiskey in their stomachs.

Hermione had stopped showing her face altogether. The sunshine, when it did come out to stretch, always tried to peel its fingers between her drapes. But she had bought heavy ones on purpose for this very reason and there was often very little light on the creaky wood of her flat. Life had become a question of survival, not an attempt at… whatever it was she had dreamed of before. Success? Love? Happiness? It was all such a blur.

She could hardly remember the last time she had kept track of the day, much less the date or the programs that were playing on the wireless. She had endless amounts of books that adoring fans had left in her mail, novels she had inherited from her aunt and uncle upon their passing; she had never cared much for Muggle literature but it was tolerable, in the least, and kept her company. She hadn't been to the bookstore up the alley in more than two years.

People had stopped knocking on her door; Hermione assumed it had been about three or four months, but she had thrown all her calendars away and lived only by the dim light that came and went through her shielded windows. She couldn't bear the thought of time limits any longer. It was all too much.

Harry had given up—Ron too. It was easy for her to admit to herself that she missed them terribly, and even on her stronger days when she thought of writing them, she remembered that she hadn't a single scrap of blank parchment or drop of ink in her flat. She had abolished everything with a _Reducto_ worthy of Gi—

But that was just it, wasn't it?

Hermione felt them coming and squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers curling into weak fists as the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Even after all this time, the sobs still came from her chest in horrid, choked sounds. She couldn't help it anymore. Her will had disappeared the day Ginny had.

She still had the box of things, Hermione did. It was the only parchment she had kept with her throughout the years; sometimes she thought she could only bear it because of the sloppy twirls and curls that always decorated the corners (Ginny had liked doodling). Other days she thought the opposite. In the box, she kept a few shirts, scraps of parchment, a ceramic flower made in Muggle London, a dried up rose, and just one picture. Hermione often went weeks without taking the box down from its nook in her closet—she really didn't like moving from her spot on the cool wooden floor beyond necessary reasons—but there always came the days when she couldn't help but feel more sentimental than usual.

Those were her worst days.

There was a sharp crack in the air. Hermione hadn't heard someone Apparate in quite a long time, but she still knew the noise as though it were the birds that sang outside her window in the morning. She moved quickly and quietly from the floor to her bedroom, closing the door slightly behind her. Her flat, though small, was difficult to navigate in, and she could tell from the noise that the witch or wizard had Apparated into the kitchen.

She could hear herself breathing, no matter how shallow her breaths were, could hear the wood creaking under the person's feet. Her heart started to accelerate in the slightest, but she found it to be of some comfort that her war instincts were still running through her blood.

"Hermione?"

The voice that called her then was one that made her knees go weak, one that brought instant tears to her eyes; she stood with her mouth agape for a moment before she wrapped her arms around her torso and leaned against the wall, sinking to the floor. Light flooded her bedroom after a simple _Lumos _was cast and they found her there, curled in a ball behind her doorframe.

Hermione looked up through (always) red eyes, clawed her frizzy hair from her forehead and looked. Her throat struggled to form words, to form any sound at all, and when she spoke, it felt like it was the first time she'd spoken in years. It was the first time she'd spoken to anyone other than herself in years.

"Luna."

There was a small smile to the name, a twitch of the lips, and then there were long pale fingers reaching out for Hermione, long blonde hair falling out from an old hat and an old overcoat. To Hermione's own surprise, she reached back, extending her arm and feeling weak from the task. Luna pulled her up; Luna, who was strong and willing and who was helping her from the floor, who was smoothing the hair on the back of Hermione's head, who was hushing her like a small child, who was letting the entire weight of another person stand on her as though it were simply nothing at all.

Luna, who was here.

Hermione asked with her eyes, for she couldn't ask with her voice, but Luna understood; she always understood.

Luna pulled an old pocket watch from her overcoat. It was ticking like any clock, but the time was written differently. "I change it according to the month, so that I don't forget things."

"You're not a forgetful person." Hermione murmured, wrapping a hand in Luna's hair to make sure she was real.

"It doesn't hurt to be reminded." She pointed to the spot where the 5 would have been normally. It had a picture of Hermione on it, one from fifth or sixth year. They'd been staying at the Burrow for Christmas that year and Luna had captured more pictures than anyone had thought logical. But Luna always had her reasons.

"I've given you three years." Luna said softly, tracing a finger over the vines that embroidered the edge of the pocket watch. She looked up and met Hermione's eyes.

"I think it's time for you to come home."


End file.
